


A Wolf Without Teeth

by thewanderingderp



Category: The Hobbit
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, M/M, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewanderingderp/pseuds/thewanderingderp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins has decided that he absolutely hates his life in the city, and on a whim moves into a remote mountain town far away from most of civilization. He quickly finds the place populated by many strange folks, and even stranger yet, finds himself often visited by what seems to be a large pack of "dogs." Bilbo soon discovers that the townsfolk hold an ancient secret, and warily, finds himself aiding the lost hunters of the mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolf Without Teeth

It happened in the gardening department of the nearby grocery store where Bilbo Baggins had been working for twenty years. It was a rather rude surprise, really, and quite unwelcome. He supposed that this is what it was like to see red, when someone is so angry and despondent that they’re unaware of their own actions. There was soil, roots, and flowers strewn on the floor where Bilbo had picked up the pots and smashed them into the ground in a frenzy of labored growling and shouting. His supervisor told him to go take a breather, but only after fifteen minutes in the break room did Bilbo march right back out and quit his job for good.

He'd had his midlife crisis, and it was louder and far more disastrous than he would have liked. The damages were taken out of his last paycheck, and he only walked out with a measly 150 quid to his name. Being a forty-two year old grocer would likely take its toll on anyone, and being single and completely alone in his fairly nice apartment certainly wasn’t helping. It was especially so in the city, where the sound of car alarms and his neighbors screaming down the street were often reminders of how maddening his days truly were.

It was at that point that Bilbo went home, peeked into his savings (which was for emergencies), and looked for a new place to live. It didn’t take him long to find a place in the hills far from here. Even if the house looked like a fixer upper, even if his apartment was cozy and well-built, and even if it was two hundred miles away, the middle-aged man was still dead-set on leaving this blasted place. After his mum’s death a couple of years prior, Bilbo had no family to stay in town for.

He took the trip by train, and then at a point where the tracks did not lead (which rarely happened) hopped onto a bus for the rest of the way. The ride was quite comfortable and calm. He watched the buildings turn to fields, then watched the fields melt away into pine trees and roaring rivers. The roads curved around the mountains like a snake between rocks, which caused him to fall ill (and vomit his lunch out into a bin when they pulled over), but overall the drive was quite lovely and refreshing. The change of scenery made him excited, and when he saw a fox bounding through the trees he pointed it out to the old woman sitting behind him, who merely chuckled with delight.

Upon reaching the small town that would potentially serve as his new home, the bus came to a halt and the driver told him that this was as far as they could be taken. Bilbo was the only one left on the ride at that point, and it was already settling into dusk. He remembered sadly that he wouldn’t be able to spend the night at his home just yet, as he still needed to fix it up before it was suitable for living. Thankfully, he had set up some living arrangements with someone in the town, although he had no idea who said someone could be.

Quickly stepping off of the bus with luggage in hand, Bilbo scanned the small and grungy bus stop expectantly. He was supposed to meet a man here who would take him to his temporary living quarters, but there were several men lingering about. With luck on his side, someone noticed he was lost and approached him first. The man that drew near was incredibly scruffy, with untidy black hair and an equally shabby beard. He was wearing a fur lined hat with the flaps pointing up on the sides, as well as a bright smile. The stranger looked like a true mountain man, Bilbo had thought.

“Mr. Baggins, is it?” The accent was a little bit thicker than what Bilbo was used to—perhaps it was the area? Politely, the brunet smiled and turned to regard him with a nod.

“That’s quite right—you’re the one I spoke to through email, yes? The living arrangements are still on, I’m guessing?”

The man gave a hearty laugh at the assumption. “No, I’m no good with those fancy computers! You were talkin’ to old Gloin—I’m Bofur, at your service!” Bofur gave a bow after saying this, “And yes, I’ll be takin’ you to where you’re stayin’!”

“Yes, quite good,” Bilbo said with a nervous little nod. He could be a bit wary around strangers, but Bofur seemed like quite a friendly fellow. If anything, it did put the man at ease.

Following on the man’s heels, Bilbo stared around the quiet town. Houses dappled the nearby fields and in between trees; it seems it was quite the farm community. Bilbo always wanted to try his hand at gardening—the real kind. The kind that required you to get onto your knees and dig into the earth, not simply spraying a hose over an array of potted plants that were going to be sold eventually. He had the chance to get attached to nature, which was something he could never do before. Deep in his heart, he knew he was a better gardener than grocer.

They came upon a dark green truck with much of the exterior peeled away and rusted. It looked like it was still sturdy for its age, a reliable old thing. Bofur slid behind the driver’s side, motioning for Bilbo to crawl in. Being rather short for a man, the brunet struggled somewhat with getting in, and was panting by the time he closed the door behind him and pulled on the seat belt. It smelled of motor oil inside (the same smell Bofur had on him, only stronger), and the seat was combined into one instead of two. It felt scratchy, like a wool blanket.

The old beast started up with a rumble, Bofur grinning at him proudly. “Good ol’ boy can traverse these roads better than any bus can. It’ll turn to dirt pretty quick, so there’s gon’ be a lil rumble and tumble!” Setting the truck into gear, which let out a loud creaking noise, the large and heavy thing began to move at a slow and easy speed. The road quickly turned from pavement to gravel, the rocks tossing the thing around. Bilbo held onto the interior for dear life, afraid it’d tip over.

“Wh-Where are we going exactly?” He asked in a panicked tone, which only made the other man laugh.

“Just up the hill! You’ll be stayin’ with the old man, Mr. Gandalf! Quite a nice fellow, you’ll like him!”

They were up on a mountain path, which was a bit smoother than the one they were just on. “So,” Bofur began, perking his thick brows at the ex-grocer, “why’d you decide to move up here?”

Bilbo didn’t really have to think it over too much, as the answer came rather quickly to him—scarily so. “Because I hated my life in the city,” he replied rather bluntly, staring out of the window to avoid eye contact. Bofur simply laughed, regardless.

“Hopefully ya take to the change well—it’s quite different here. Many city folk get scared off just a week in!”

_I won’t_ , Bilbo thought to himself, and continued watching the trees pass him by. It was so beautiful here—it really was quite worth the change, he supposed. Different was good—he needed different.

The two came upon a large, circular yard with a cabin not too far off from where Bofur parked. The yard was littered with pine needles, as was the roof of the house itself. On the deck was the aforementioned “Mr. Gandalf”—or so Bilbo assumed.

The old man was dressed in a fairly nice dress shirt and slacks, although strangely barefoot, and nursing a pipe as he waited on his front porch for his new temporary roommate to arrive. His beard was long and braided so that it was out of the way, but his hair fell over his shoulders in a more tangled and careless fashion. The man’s eyes twinkled in knowing as Bilbo and Bofur exited the truck, the smaller man looking a bit surprised at the old man’s appearance.

“Gandalf!” Bofur said this excitedly as he ran up to give the grey haired fellow a pat on the back, Gandalf chuckling pleasantly. He seemed like a very happy man, Bilbo thought, a smile on his lips as he watched the exchange.

“Have you kept yourself out of trouble, young man?” Gandalf drawled this in a half teasing voice, puffing a bit on his pipe. Bofur scoffed.

“I’m as young as you, I reckon,” Bofur crossed his arms, not looking pleased about his own age for some reason or another. Bofur looked around Bilbo’s age, so part of him didn’t blame the rough looking man for being upset about it. “And I never start the trouble! It’s always the young’n’s that do!”

“But that does not mean you’ll stay out of trouble once it has been started,” Gandalf said this in a stern tone as he stood, walking past Bofur and making his way over to Bilbo. He certainly did tower over him, which made the small man a bit nervous. “Mr. Baggins, I presume?”

Bilbo gave a quick nod. “Yes, quite—um, I’m not a bother, am I?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Gandalf waved off the thought, outstretching a friendly hand. “I volunteered! It’s quite a pleasure, I go by Gandalf.”

“Pleasure’s all mine!” Bilbo said this in his most wholesome and polite tone, and really, it wasn’t too untruthful. The way Gandalf carried himself was rather calming to be around. After exchanging a hand shake, the old man perked his bushy brows at Bofur. Everyone in these woods was rather hairy, and Bilbo felt a little put off by it. It usually took him ages to grow a beard, but even then, the long curls on his head were an indicator that his hair had no trouble growing.

“Bofur,” Gandalf’s tone was almost warning, “you’ve kept your mouth shut about recent affairs, have you?”

“As shut as a trap door!” Bofur made a motion of zipping his mouth shut, his grin growing big. Bilbo looked a bit panicked at the idea of “recent affairs,” a pit of worry forming in his stomach.

“Wait—affairs? What affairs?” He stared at Gandalf expectantly, who simply let out a bit of a sigh.

“Well, my boy, we didn’t want to scare you away, but…” He motioned out to the woods. “There’s been animals coming down from the mountains and ruining crops! Quite a horrible business, really—thankfully, we have hunters patrolling, and Bofur’s one of them.”

“So if’n you hear any growlin’ around your house at night,” Bofur piped up, a grin on his face, “just let me know! ‘Could also be one’a our huntin’ dogs. You’ll see ‘em around quite a bit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bilbo said faintly, gulping. He wasn’t keen on having a bear or some such animal stalking his house, but if there were hunters positioned about, he supposed that the danger was fairly low. Bofur helped to unpack some of Bilbo’s things from the back of the truck, insisting that the “city boy” needn’t worry over things being too heavy for a “mountain man.” Bilbo had already presumed that where you hail from played a large part here in this town, and it only made him want to prove himself all the more.

“He merely jests,” Gandalf muttered around his pipe, chuckling. It seems he had noticed Bilbo’s ruffled features. “I’ve lived many places in my years, and where you come from has nothing to do with who you are—it’s merely about where you’ve been.”

“I haven’t been anywhere, really,” Bilbo muttered under his breath, rather ashamed. This simply got a laugh out of Gandalf before they hurried into the warm and cozy house, rather cluttered with picture frames and old relics from travels— mostly gift shop merchandise. The city dweller found it mythical and interesting, and the jars full of herbs and dried plant life also complimented the look of a magical being’s home. Of course, fairy tales were things that he had left behind as a child, but it was still something to think about.

“If you see Oakenshield,” Gandalf said to Bofur in the doorway, “tell him that Wednesday would be a perfect day for him to come by.”

Bofur gave a nod and a smile, parting with a farewell and turning to regard Bilbo. “I’ll see ya later, Mr. Baggins!” And before Bilbo could even say thank you, Bofur was jogging off, as though he had already overstayed his welcome.

The guest room may have been small, but it was enough to hold Bilbo, who wasn’t too big himself. There was a double bed shoved up against the wall with a light blue, quilted blanket on top, the white sheets underneath clean but smelling of aged dust. The room didn’t have much besides a dresser, a closet, a bed side table, and an antique lamp giving the room a calm glow. The dark green carpet and sky blue walls were very welcoming, as well as the pink curtain hanging over the window just above the bed.

“I hope this is enough. You have free reign of the house, but resist from eating all of my food,” Gandalf said this in a low tone, as though he had experiences with his guests eating everything in sight. “I’m sure it could go without saying, but try not to bring others in here. I dare say that poor old headboard likely couldn’t take it.”

Bilbo’s ears flushed as he realized what Gandalf was implying, turning to regard him with growl, which only made the old man walk away with a chuckle. “Good night, Mr. Baggins,” he drawled, moving to his own room. It took Bilbo a moment to realize that night had fallen by the time he and Bofur arrived.

“Good night, Gandalf,” Bilbo mumbled, disheartened by being alone in a strange house, and with that gloomy farewell he made his way into the room and closed the door. Getting dressed into his comfortable sleeping shirt and trousers, the brunet fell onto the bed rather dramatically and stared at the ceiling with his hands crossed over his stomach. Pulling his reading tablet to his face, Bilbo tried to concentrate on the words in a sad attempt to fall asleep. However, no matter how much he took in the story and read (even with his more boring how-to’s on gardening that he put onto the device before leaving), the man still remained wide awake into the later hours of the night. Sometimes he’d pause to see if he could hear Gandalf snore, but he only heard the din of a television. Perhaps the old man was a night owl, or needed the noise for rest.

It wasn’t until Bilbo heard a menacing growl did he move from his recline on the bed, sitting up straight with his eyes wide in dread. Tucking his feet in as though to avoid having them bitten off, the brunet gradually made his way to the window, peeking out cautiously to see what the fuss was about. What he saw immediately made his mouth drop open in astonishment.

There was a large dog (probably one of the hunting dogs) scowling at him, the eyes sharp and translucent in the light, almost like the moon was reflecting on steel. The hound looked pensive, calculating, watching Bilbo and taking him in. Feeling scrutinized, the man sank down a bit lower, somewhat fearful of the large beast. It looked almost like a German shepherd as far as size went , but the coloring was strange. The dog’s thick fur was black with strands of white, and most strikingly, there was white trailing from the dog’s muzzle down his stomach. It was quite beautiful…

After staring at Bilbo for what must have been ages, the beast bowed its head and stalked off into the forestry. Bilbo straightened to try and see where it went, but there was no trace left behind. Sinking down, the man turned to fall onto his side, curling up a bit and completely disbelieving of the monstrous dog he just saw—and also partly disbelieving that it was _just_ one of the hunting dogs and not some wild animal that had decided to stalk him for a few moments. No, not wild—those eyes were not the eyes of something without conscious…

Without even moving under the blankets, Bilbo ended up drifting into a rather sudden and deep sleep. His dreams were fitful, head filled with alarming images of running through the forest on all fours, encountering other such large canines, or even fighting them until he was left to bleed on the ground.

This wasn’t the last time he would have such dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> I made Bilbo 42 to fit with the difference in Hobbit years and human years. To be frank, Bilbo looks young at 50 in both Jackson's movie and the animated version, so I'm thinking that Hobbits look younger for a far more extended period of time in comparison to humans.


End file.
